


Extracurricular

by Elpie (Horribibble)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Alternate Universe - Teachers, BAMF Dorian Pavus, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff and Humor, Found Family, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multimedia, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:14:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25822723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Elpie
Summary: “They make thimbles for this exact reason.” Felix says, as if it is perfectly normal for Dorian to be forcing needles through what looks like spandex.Spandex.“Dorian, darling, blink twice if you’re being held against your will.”“Ha.” Dorian deadpans, and then goes back to sewing what looks eerily like a homemade supersuit.Which he should not be doing, because he is ascience teacherandThe IronBull works at his school.-Adventures in punch-clock villainy, teaching high schoolers, and falling in love.
Relationships: Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus
Comments: 28
Kudos: 190
Collections: The Adoribull Big Bang 2020





	Extracurricular

**Author's Note:**

> It's here! 
> 
> This is my first time participating in _any_ fandom bang, so I hope I'm doing everything correctly. I have to give a big shoutout to my Discord friends, who took the time to read this over again and again and reassure me that I wasn't going off the rails. 
> 
> The art-- _the absolutely gorgeous art holey cheese_ \--is by Starkurt. You can find their post of it [here](https://starkurt.tumblr.com/post/626071482173423616/my-half-of-my-contribution-to-the) and the tumblr masterpost for this [here.](https://elpiething.tumblr.com/post/626071440855334912/extracurricular-adoribull-big-bang-2020)
> 
> I'm so pumped to have been able to do this challenge, and to have such an amazing artist to work with. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. <3

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/145598454@N05/50210377412/in/dateposted/)

-

Maevaris Tilani is a busy woman, but she always makes time for her dearest friends, especially now that both of them have made the (frankly, horrific) command decision to find the most inhospitable part of the south they could and _rent_ there. 

Which is why she’s sitting on their POOF call, watching as Dorian swears and sucks on his sore fingers. 

“They make thimbles for this exact reason.” Felix says, as if it is perfectly normal for Dorian to be forcing needles through what looks like spandex. 

_Spandex._

“Dorian, darling, blink twice if you’re being held against your will.”

“Ha.” Dorian deadpans, but he does not look up from his war with the stretch fabric. It’s a wonder he hasn’t burst into flame. 

“Felix, what’s happening?”

Felix bites his lip. “Well, you know how I’ve been trying out heroing on the side?” 

“Because pursuing a tenured position as a professor was not wild and daring enough?” She drawls. “No, I did not know this.”

He slumps a bit in that particular way that has made both Mae and Dorian do considerably stupid things. 

“Tell me they haven’t passed you over for tenure.”

“Not... _yet._ They haven’t made their decision.” _Still._

“Right, so you’ve decided to fight for justice and a paycheck.”

“It’s dependent on his results. It’s a bureaucracy, and it’s not at all slanted in his favor.” 

“People tend to assume that I’m a supervillain, given our uh...reputation.”

“So I’ve decided to give them one.” Dorian adds, steel in his eyes as he finally looks up at the camera. 

And promptly stabs himself again. 

For a few moments, Maevaris goes quiet, studying both of her boys in their little digital frames. Finally she sighs, “Can’t we talk about the spandex?”

“Optimistically, I’m not going to be doing this long enough to _need_ a proper costume.”

“I hope not. You have a day job.”

-

Is there a sound effect for irony? 

Is it just the whomp whomp noise?

Dorian _does_ have a day job, but it’s not really uncommon for people in his profession to supplement the paycheck. 

Some of them drive Soar. 

Some of them wait tables. 

Some of them, Dorian is reasonably certain, do cam shows. 

So, arguably, he’s not alone.

-

Dorian Pavus stands behind the counter at the head of the laboratory and looks out over his kingdom, populated by distracted teenagers. Fourteen-year-olds are demons, but they are _his_ demons, and he cannot show them fear. 

So he takes a shallow breath—trying not to worsen the blistering ache of his bruised ribs—and begins to explain the concept for today’s experiment: they’re dealing with osmosis. 

Blank stares. 

Judgement. 

“Right, let’s try this again—today we’ll be drowning gummy bears and seeing what happens.” 

The demons are genuinely excited by the prospect. 

-

Two periods later, Dorian eases himself into a chair in the teacher’s lounge, coffee in one hand, lab reports gingerly guarding his side in the other. 

Admin has graciously provided them with a keurig knockoff, and Dorian is going to salve his burdened soul with a pod of artificially-flavored caramel substance. It’s not even an indulgence. He can’t go to the gym like this. He can hear the nutritionist his parents hired for him at sixteen _hissing_ in the back of his brain, but the proper care and breeding of Dorians is no longer the top of anyone’s list. 

He loses himself in the warm sugar sensation until a heavy hand lands on his shoulder. 

Maker. 

The Iron Bull stands at his side, looking down at him without ever _actually_ looking down at him. He’s far too sweet a man for that, good-natured and warm. He teaches Phys Ed and Health for the children, and sometimes he and Dorian get partnered up for things other than Sex Ed. 

Dorian tries hard not to think about Sex Ed and Bull’s considerable triceps at the same time. 

He fails. 

“Hey, Big Guy. You look a little…” Bull motions to his own face, and squints exaggeratedly. “Pinched.”

“Bull, if my face ever does what yours just did, it’s time to put me out of my misery.”

The man laughs from the belly, big noisy sounds of joy. And Dorian does not sigh, because that would aggravate his ribs again. 

And also because The Iron Bull is the man who bruised them. 

Technically, that’s _his_ second job.

-

( The Iron Bull is Skyhold’s darling, a superhero for the common man. He gets things done by plowing through them, using his body as a shield and battering ram both. 

Protecting the innocent. 

Fighting for justice. 

Throwing Dorian, masked and clad in spandex, through a very sturdy glass window. 

And also teaching children about the wonders of physical health and wellbeing, because who better to teach such things than a superhero. Great job, school district! Wonderful hire!

If the children misbehave, he can just throw them up a flagpole. 

(Only he wouldn’t, because the children are innocent and Dorian…)

Dorian ought to have words with him about assaulting technically harmless bank robbers, or about nicking another hero’s obvious capture, but he’s too busy having a personal crisis. )

-

“I’m all right, Bull.” He smiles. “Just had a rough night.”

“Yeah, I get that. Take it easy, all right?”

Dorian is screwed. 

-

Sera calls Bull his ‘work husband.’

But she’s been arguing with Solas about adding ‘performance paint ballooning’ to the curriculum, so he feels secure in blowing that one off. 

-

“Son of a _bitch_ ,” Dorian whines from where he lies sprawled on Felix’s couch. “I have a _nemesis,_ Felix. And he’s built like a brick shithouse.”

“At least we know they’re taking you seriously.”

A pillow lands in his face with a satisfying _fomp_ . “They weren’t _supposed_ to take me seriously! They were supposed to take _you_ seriously! I got into this because you needed the income!”

“Oh, well that’s the good news. I got the position.”

Dorian freezes, wet rag in a useless pile on the carpet, reaching for another innocent throw pillow. “Oh. Oh, good.”

“But you’ve filled out all that paperwork.”

“Felix.”

“You have a following.”

“ _Felix._ ”

“You _have_ to be making more than you do at the school.”

“...damn it.”

“And there are memes.”

Felix holds up his tablet, screen dominated by a picture of Dorian’s spandex-clad backside surrounded by little doodle hearts. The text reads—

OUROBORASS

“I _hate_ you.”

-

But Felix is, as always, horribly and disgustingly correct, and as much as Dorian really does value his duties as an educator, the paycheck is admittedly not ideal. 

He’s broke, and he is very tired of splurging on grocery store sushi. 

The thing he objects to is the speed with which Maevaris alights at his door, a frankly impressive case and a downright bubbly Felix in tow. 

“Dorian, we need to talk about your _costume._ ”

“And your gadgets.” Felix adds. 

“I don’t _have_ gadgets.” Dorian frowns. 

“ _You will._ ”

-

Dorian is not an _evil_ person. 

A surprising few members of the villainous profession _are,_ at least those registered with the league. There’s a code to follow, and the consequences for breaking that code range from disturbingly inconvenient to something out of an obscure wetwork handbook.

But there’s a certain element of freedom in stealing from the rich to give to charity (and also his rent payment, because even if the nearby forest _weren’t_ filled with bears, he knows he couldn’t live there.)

It’s a _challenge_ to tussle with heroes, agitate the status quo, and escape with life and limb even as a growling man in a terribly unwieldy suit of armor swings a sword at his head. 

And honestly, it helps let off steam from grading some frankly disappointing lab reports. 

He’s relatively small pickings, beneath the notice of major league heroes like The Iron Bull. Or he is, until he goes to rob the First Fereldan Bank and ends up stumbling directly into a _reputation._

-

Dorian prides himself on never actually _hurting_ civilians. 

He got into this game to help Felix, who makes sad faces on the couch whenever he so much as clips a cop during a daring escape. 

So while the hostages _are_ cowering as he monologues and mean mugs on the marble floor as if it were a stage, he hasn’t actually done any damage to anyone. 

Which...might change. Soon. 

There’s a pair of women—a couple, as it soon becomes apparent—huddled on the floor, one giving the other comfort. She’s dark-skinned, with a few piercings and a motorcycle jacket that Dorian can’t help but admire. Her girlfriend is a pale elf with vallaslin writ across her face, kind green eyes, and what sounds a bit like asthma. 

The girl in the jacket shoots a fierce look up at Dorian before pressing a kiss to her girlfriend’s temple, speaking to her in gentle tones. 

It looks like she might be in need of an inhaler, and the doctor in Dorian is about to ask if she _has_ one when an older woman with an attitude and a manicure hisses, “Do you need to do that _now?_ ”

“Do _what_ ?” Jacket asks, looking up from the wheezing woman in her arms. “ _Breathe_?”

“Make a—” She waggles ballet slipper pink nails as if _shame_ might shoot out of them. “Spectacle of yourselves.”

Dorian freezes. 

“I’m sorry.” He says. “I’m sorry, Karen, did you want a cape? _Because that was fucking evil._ ”

The advantage to being a cartoonishly-attired villain is that homophobes tend not to _argue_ when you tell them off. 

The (dis)advantage is that people like to sneak cellphone videos of you. 

So by the end of the evening, Dorian’s fan following is _exploding._ The video of him telling off Bankheist Betty has gone both viral and on international news networks, and Maevaris calls on POOF just to laugh uproariously for twenty-odd minutes. 

“You’re a hero after all!” Felix beams. 

And Dorian takes a deep breath to fend off the migraine. 

But there’s a text from Jacket— _Isabela—_ that makes it feel just a bit better: 

Isabela 😎   
  
**I: ******Got my kitten to urgent care  
  
**I: ******Thanks ouroboros  
  
**I: ******You’re a real peach  
  
  


He lets his head fall back against the sofa. 

He’s _screwed._

_-_

There is _merchandise_ with his likeness on it. 

Dorian knows this because _his students_ are wearing it. 

“Okay, so the dude’s a villain.” Edgar Welles shrugs. “But he’s _cool._ ”

Dalish has fashioned herself a pony bead bracelet with WWOD? on it. She’s interning with the _Hero’s Union._

This is all ridiculous.

Dorian _does not_ blush.

-

In the teacher’s lounge, Bull drops into the chair across from him with a troubling squeak and offers him a tin of cookies. 

Dorian blinks over the rim of his cheap coffee substitute. “Oh? For me?”

“Yeah.” Bull smiles, wobbling the tin slightly in his hands. “Made ‘em myself.”

 _This_ Dorian has to see, if only to chase off the mental image of his coworker in a frilly apron and very little else. He pops open the lid with a nudge of his thumb, noting the winged nug-cherubs on the lid and sides, and can’t help but take a generous lungful of that beautiful brown sugar smell. 

“You’re too kind to me.” He sighs. 

“You’re worth it.”

Dorian blinks a few more times. “Eh?”

“I mean...you’ve seemed pretty tired lately, and you’re a good teacher. The kids like you. They deserve you at your best.”

“So you’re pumping me full of sugar and unleashing me on the children?”

“Think of it as payback, maybe.” Bull grins. 

And Dorian can see his teeth gnashing together, one great arm pulled back like a wrecking ball, ready to fly straight at his face. 

He looks down at the nug cherubs cradled in his lap. 

“Right.” He says. “Thank you.”

-

It’s a very dangerous position to be in, blushing uncontrollably while your arch nemesis tells you about _payback._

Very.

Dangerous. 

He doesn’t want to tell Felix or Mae. Really, he’s whined at them enough. Felix is hard at work in his new position, and Mae has an Imperium to continue wrapping around her delicate fingers. 

So beyond all reason, his hand twitches toward his cellphone. 

-

Isabela 😎   
  
**D:** Do you suppose a healthy relationship might be maintained despite regular mutual physical trauma?  
  
**I:** Are you talking about dv?  
  
**I:** Bc that sounds like dv.  
  
**D:** I don’t think it counts as domestic.  
  
**D:** Is there public violence?  
  
**D:** Is that a charge?  
  
**I:** Andraste’s fuzzy tits you like the bull  
  
**I:** I mean I can’t blame you  
  
**I:** Guy’s built  
  
**D:** I did notice.  
  
**D:** He’s nice, too.  
  
**D:** I shouldn’t be bothering you.  
  
**I:** No, you should come out with me.  
  
**D:** What?  
  
**I:** Peaches, normal women do not give supervillains contact information.  
  
**I:** We’re coworkers.  
  
**I:** Let’s cowork.  
  


  
__

_-_

So it turns out that Isabela is also The Captain, which is something of a misleading name. 

One expects a straight white man with perfect teeth and multiple reserve speeches about justice. Perhaps a police background. 

Isabela is a _pirate._

Just...without a ship.

-

There’s something very surreal about walking through a museum at night.

The paintings are yawning voids with occasional dull sparks of pale color, the statues constantly vigilant and casting long shadows. 

Dorian’s a bit disappointed that there are no visible laser arrays, but that’s what he gets for expecting movie magic. 

Beside him, Isabela bounces slightly on the balls of her feet. “Right. We want to head that way to get to the elvhen artefacts.”

“You didn’t seem like a reseller to me.” Dorian says. 

“Oh, not at all. Mostly I take trophies, embarrass a few rich shitheads, the occasional honey trap. This is restoration.”

“You’re returning stolen objects.” 

Isabela taps a finger to her nose. “Kitten locates, and I liberate.”

“Dream team stuff.” Dorian grins. 

He’s not expecting the light punch to his arm. “We’re going to settle this nonsense with Iron Bosoms. I haven’t forgotten.”

It’s nice to have friends.

-

They’re expecting perhaps security guards, a sudden alarm. 

Worst case scenario, a very bored superhero. 

What they are not expecting is The Silver Crow, waving at them with fluttering fingers. “I was not expecting company tonight.”

“Peaches, have you met Zev?” Isabela purrs, as if this is some sort of weird speed-dating event and not a robbery in the dead of night. 

“We have not had the pleasure.” ‘Zev’ smiles from under a mask that would not be entirely out of place at a masquerade (or an orgy) back home.

Dorian squints. 

“It’s the feathers, isn’t it?” The Antivan smiles, and then _removes his disguise._ “It turns out that groups that tattoo your face to prevent you from leaving have a point.” 

He runs a thumb over his cheekbone, where the ink curves. Shrugs. 

“You were an actual Crow.”

“It helps to hide in plain sight.” Zevran nods. 

“And be _ridiculously dramatic._ ” Isabela adds. “Here to meet a friend?”

“We met, we parted. I find myself with time on my hands.”

“Excellent. We’ll need help to carry this thing.”

-

So that’s how Dorian ends up perched on the ledge of a decorative tower with two _other_ outlaws, drinking frappuccinos at 2 AM on a Friday, which is possibly the most ‘social’ he’s been since moving south. 

Zevran plays with his straw, making soft honking noises as it scrapes plastic on plastic. “It sounds to me that you have a decision to make.”

“I’ve been thinking about it, and I don’t think I can _afford_ to quit. I’ve got a PHD, but no one here will recognize it. I like my day job, but…” Dorian sighs.

“This is not what I meant.”

“What _did_ you mean?”

“Don’t frown. You’re too pretty to frown.”

“Zevran.” Isabela snorts. 

“Your _decision_ is whether or not you want to do this _right_ or become insignificant.”

“I’ve never been _insignificant_ a day in my life.”

“Right. So we teach you how to take a punch.” Zevran smiles. 

And then boots him off the ledge.

-

On his next POOF call with Mae and Felix, Dorian takes a deep breath and says, “What would you say if I told you I wanted to do this? That I were _serious_ about this?” 

There’s silence for a moment or two. 

“Dorian,” Mae says. “I’ve been designing proper protective gear for two weeks.”

Felix makes an offended noise and holds up the grappling hook he’s been working on. “Come _on._ ”

“So, what brought on this change of heart?” Mae asks, gently. For once.

“Is it the nemesis?” 

“No. A little bit. I had the chance to talk with some...coworkers last night.”

“Your first supervillain team-up?” Felix gasps. 

“I don’t think it was insidious enough to qualify. Honestly, behind the scenes, we’re stunningly average.”

“Except for all the robbery and monologuing.”

“We restored a stolen artefact and got what really amounted to caffeinated milkshakes.” Dorian sighs, rubbing at his temples. “I’m going to sound arrogant—”

Felix opens his mouth and Mae shushes him. 

“I think I might be good at this. Doing questionable things that might actually help people.”

Another moment or two of silence, and it’s _Felix_ who speaks up. 

“You have _always_ been good at this, Dorian. You’re the sort of person who gets really, genuinely pissed off when you realize that something isn’t right, and you’ve got the firepower to back it up.”

Mae nods, setting aside the notebook she’s been marking in to level him with steady eyes. “There’s absolutely no way you could ever be a proper hero, you know? You’re too ready to burn the system down to keep people warm.”

“Mae…”

“That’s not a bad thing.” She smiles a truly terrifying smile. “Frankly, more powerful individuals ought to have the fear of death forcibly inserted into them.”

Felix coughs awkwardly. “Right. What she said.”

“So...I suppose we really should discuss my costume, then.”

“Oh, absolutely.” Felix sounds _relieved._ “You look like you escaped a circus orgy.”

“And pretty soon, I’ll jump like it.”

-

Parkour lessons with Zevran Arainai are a lot like going through bootcamp, but with more blatant sexual innuendo. 

From what he can glean, Zevran _has_ a partner he cares for very much—he dances around the word ‘boyfriend’ and also the tender shreds of Dorian’s dignity—but it does not stop him from swatting Dorian’s increasingly bruised backside and telling him to ‘think bouncy.’

Which is not the most helpful advice as one continues to throw oneself into walls. Especially not when there’s an audience to his humiliation. 

Isabela perches on nearby roof ledges, statuary, and other assorted architectural protrusions, pantsless and beaming at his pain. “Try not missing!” She chirps. 

He makes an unbecoming gesture and makes another running leap at the ledge before him, snags it with his fingers, and makes a distraught ‘meep’ing noise as his gloved fingers slip and he plummets down onto his backside. 

By the end of this, his ass will be unrecoverably flat. 

But he climbs up again and keeps trying.

Isabela fishes her phone out of her cleavage and cues up the theme from Kirkwall Kombat. 

-

Repeated self-inflicted physical trauma, as it turns out, makes for an excellent workout. 

He greets his class the next morning unable to sit without a miserable ‘hngeeeeeee’ noise, but with the sort of confidence that makes even Rocky think twice about ‘experimenting’ with the chemicals at his station. 

It turns out that he may actually be feeling sort of fulfilled recently, and there’s all sorts of positive things going on with his serotonin production. He’s a fan. 

So he engages with his students, asks questions, provokes answers—even gets a few laughs, here and there, which he feels is an accomplishment. 

Because again—teenagers.

A few of them approach him after the bell to ask questions, and Dorian is surprisingly delighted to answer them. 

He’s not issuing life-saving treatments, here. Not doing world-rocking research. No one here calls him _lector_ or vies for seats in a packed hall, but… 

He feels fulfilled, all the same. 

-

This time, in the teacher’s lounge, Dorian goes to sit with Bull. 

“I wanted to ask you something.” He says. 

Bull, bless him, blinks in surprise at being approached first. To his credit, it quickly dissolves into a smile. “Whatever you need, big guy.”

Dorian sits beside him, setting down a mug full of cocoa mixed with _water_ and pushing it across the distance. 

Bull is a health teacher, but Dorian’s heard about his sweet tooth. You can’t _bake_ like he does and not have a sweet tooth. 

“I was wondering if I might use the track after school.”

“Oh.” Bull says, pausing with his lips brushing the rim of his mug. “Sure, I guess. It’s outdoors, so I can’t exactly stop you.”

“No, you can’t.” Dorian smirks, just a little. “But I’ve heard it’s not nice to take things without asking.”

-

That, he probably should not have said.

He can’t tell, by the look in Bull’s eye, if he’s thinking of throwing him out the window or onto the table. 

But he likes it.

\- 

Dorian is not sure why he’s _surprised_ that Bull is at the track _waiting_ after final bell, but there he is, beaming with a stopwatch in his hand. 

“Thought you might like some encouragement.” He shrugs. 

“What?” Dorian laughs. “You’re not going to run with me?”

Bull frowns. “Ah, no. Bum knee.”

“But you’re—” 

“A paragon of physical fitness?”

Dorian’s smile flattens into a bemused line. “Constantly abusing it with hero work.”

“Complicated relationship with pain.”

“How complicated?”

“I was bred to endure it.”

“That sounds...disturbingly familiar.”

“We’ve all got our shitty childhood stories. Maybe that’s why we do this.” He lifts his hand, watch cradled in his palm, to indicate their surroundings from the track to the school building itself. 

_Why we teach? Or why we run headfirst into danger to be anywhere else?_

He takes a deep breath. “All right. Time me.”

Bull waits patiently as he runs the circuit, air whistling through him almost like flying. Occasionally, he shouts encouragement. 

He wants to run faster and faster. 

He wants to feel Bull’s smile closer to his skin. 

Instead, he flops onto the ground when he can’t run anymore, and listens to the laughter break over Bull’s shoulders. “Pretty good.” He grins. “But I bet you can do better.”

-

“So I know we’re working on bettering ourselves.” Isabela drawls when next they meet up. 

“I love how we’ve become a unit in this, despite me being the one with all the bruises.”

“I think it might be your kink, Peaches.”

Dorian hisses at her and flings himself at a nearby ledge. 

Zevran claps politely when he hauls himself onto it with a semblance of grace rather than making a desperate goose noise and falling on his rear.

“Anyway—since you’re putting yourself through back alley bootcamp, I’ve taken the liberty of talking to a friend or two.” 

“Please don’t tell me you’ve got a nice girl for me to meet.”

“Peaches, do I seem like the type to _know_ nice girls?”

“Not without converting them.”

Her lips curve seductively, and she waves a newcomer forward. “This is—”

“Champion.”

“Hawke.” The vigilante amends. “We’re friends, I think, excepting the bit where I’m going to be hitting you in the face today.” 

“Please explain.”

“Sparring practice!” Isabela practically _sings._

Zevran just makes a hissing noise. “You should not aim for the face. He has a very nice face.”

“He’s supposed to block. You know that, right? You’re supposed to…” He dances from foot to foot, not unlike a boxer. He might _be_ a boxer. 

Dorian doesn’t know. 

Dorian’s still stuck on ‘I’m going to be hitting you in the face today.’

“If things get too rough, we can take you to Anders’ clinic.”

“Anders...the man who glows when he’s angry?”

“See, while that _should_ narrow things down…” Isabela seems genuinely delighted to be annoying.

“Just hit me.” He tells Hawke. “There are only so many hours in a—hrfffff.” 

He did ask for it, he realizes, even as he gasps around the pain in his stomach. 

But the thing is, he’s still a bit touched—emotionally. 

These people have known him for less than a month, and they’re doing their best to see him trained properly for his very dangerous line of work. They care about him. 

They _know_ him. 

But they _don’t_ know about his misspent youth slutting, drinking, and starting countless fights. 

_He_ does. 

And this is a subject in which he intends to _excel._

They drop Hawke off at Anders’ with a few new bruises and singe marks, but only _after_ they buy him a beer. 

He seems happy enough to endure the scolding after that. 

-

He receives a package a day or two later, large but relatively inconspicuous, care of Felix Alexius. 

His hands do not shake as they unbox the new mask Maevaris designed for him—a black, molded leather skull that will cover his face and most of his head. 

The last time he had this many butterflies in his stomach, he was— 

Well, no. 

It wasn’t so long ago, was it?

He was being handed homemade cookies in a ridiculous tin, now home to the few keepsake trinkets he’s collected during his brief time in the south—a pencil with the school’s name on, a beanie nug with glued-on plastic sunglasses, a tiny geode Grim handed to him and refused to take back— 

And now, in his hands, [ a skull. ](https://www.destructoid.com/ul/563844-supposed-concept-art-surfaces-from-cancelled-damian-wayne-batman-title/cancelled%20batman%20game%20black%20mask-noscale.jpg)

He can’t resist the urge to try it on, takes an experimental breath, and realizes that Mae has included a rebreather in the design. He can’t help but giggle a bit, which must look horrifying from the outside. 

Because this is it. 

This is real. 

He’s going through a villainous costume change, because he intends to _do this._

He reaches back into the box, sifting through packing materials to unearth supple black leather, enchantments molded into the fabric with obvious care. 

He’ll be able to move in this, to command fear and fire, to call forth the dead with every possible economy of movement. 

He’ll be a sight to behold. 

He’ll be Ouroburos. 

-

It’s a good thing, too, that he’s putting in the effort.

Otherwise, the Warden’s armored fists would have made _hamburger_ out of his face with that swing. 

He’ll admit that it _is_ partially his fault. The man is perpetually grumpy, and jabs at his hygiene in that ridiculous suit were probably not entirely _tasteful._

But he wasn’t prepared for the Warden to show up to escort the diplomat he’d meant to threaten. He’s pretty famous for being _really bad_ at dealing with the social elite, if the ridiculous YouLuvian clips are to be believed. 

So he dances out of reach, ducking and turning and not being offended when the Warden spits, “Thought you couldn’t _get_ any creepier, you ponce bastard!”

But he’s stopped short when he backs directly into a broad, muscular chest, and an arm he has had _thoughts_ about reaches past him to stop the Warden’s blow short. 

Dorian can hear the creaking of metal and leather. 

The Iron Bull smells like brown sugar and salt today. He’s not entirely prepared to be squashed by a cookie. 

“Easy there, Warden. That’s _my_ villain.” 

Is there a buzzing noise? Dorian hears a buzzing noise. 

“Bull.” The Warden frowns. “Come on, that’s a load of nonsense.”

And Bull _chirps,_ “Nope. ‘s the Nemesis clause. I get first dibs, and _this_ is under control.”

The Warden’s body language _exudes_ petulant teenager, and Dorian only barely restrains the urge to laugh as he turns on his heel and stomps away. It might be the minor head trauma. 

It’s so warm, here.

“ _Do_ you have me ‘under control,’ The Iron Bull?”

He can feel an abrupt rumbling against his back that is not laughter. He can’t bring himself to be afraid. 

“I think maybe you’d like that.”

“Not quite so much as you, I think. Are you _jealous_ someone else punched me in the face, darling?”

The wall of muscle behind him stiffens. Probably a bad subject, while he’s caught up in those wrecking ball arms. 

Gracious. 

“He got ya, then.”

“He _is_ decent at his job.” Dorian grumbles. 

“So’re you. Was fancy footwork out there. And some pretty killer new gear.” He actually lifts a finger to _tap_ at the side of Dorian’s mask. 

It occurs to Dorian that he should possibly be trying to get away. 

But he’s taken a knock to the head, and also he has more hormones than sense. 

“And I’m not jealous. I don’t _like_ hitting you.”

Dorian can’t help but laugh, this time. “You smile rather a lot for someone who doesn’t like violence.”

“It’s tunnel vision a lot of the time. ...And I didn’t say I don’t like violence. I said I don’t like being violent with _you._ ”

Dorian does not know what to do with that. 

At all. 

So of course he rasps, “Close your eyes and back away.”

And obediently, gently, Bull does. 

Dorian does not shiver before he disappears in a burst of flame. 

-

He stands before the mirror that night, staring at the rapidly forming bruise ‘round his eye. He can’t remember the last time he had a proper shiner, but it was undoubtedly during his childhood. 

Over time, he’s gotten much better at protecting his face.

He’s so pretty. He works _so hard_ to be this pretty, and his instinct tells him to hide it. Fix it. Do something to make it go away. 

He’s not the best at healing magic. 

Felix would panic immediately. 

And he’s not about to rouse sleep-deprived disaster Anders to fix what is arguably a simple cosmetic issue. 

Besides…

He stands before the mirror, fingers grazing the edge of the purpling mark spilling onto his cheek, and thinks, _It_ **_is_ ** _my color._

Dorian grins like a maniac. 

_All right_ , He thinks. _Good._

-

So he comes into school the next morning, hair perfectly coiffed, clothing appropriate but stylish, and half his face dominated by a ghastly dark black eye. 

He’s expecting perhaps some scandalized gasps, whispering. Perhaps the children will behave a bit better out of pity. Or fear. Either works. 

He is _not_ expecting the genuine outrage on his behalf from the students. Or the bizarre outpouring of respect. For a few confusing moments, Krem and the rest of the hero interns—they call themselves The Chargers—seem about to form a vigilante committee. 

Rocky proposes that they spend the class period making a homebrewed Mace equivalent, and Dorian has to fight back a sudden chuckle to explain that this would _definitely not be Biology._

“Sure it would.” Rocky says, “We could study what it does to the human eyeball. You still got eggs, right?”

“I can tell you what happens.” Stitches jumps in. “And we should _definitely do it._ ”

And at that point, Dorian really can’t help but laugh. 

“I appreciate your concern, I really do, but we still have material to cover.” 

The students actually _groan,_ and it makes him feel sort of warm inside. These are good kids, and for the year, they’re _his._ And they think he’s an interesting person—a person worth looking out for. 

(He still has to grade their lab reports, so he’ll see how long it lasts.)

\- 

Sera catches him in the hallway and _grins_ at him. “Hate to see the other guy, eh?”

And it takes him a moment to realize that she genuinely thinks he’s a badass. And then, it occurs to him that he _is_ a badass. 

He’s riding on a high of personal satisfaction when he tells her, “Oh, certainly. Almost makes me miss my youthful brawling days.”

Sera _lights up._

“You’ll tell me over drinks!” She nearly shouts, and runs off to inform the _rest of the faculty_ that they’ll be meeting up at a bar tonight. 

It is _astoundingly_ easy to throw a party in the south. 

He kind of likes it.

-

In the teacher’s lounge, he settles in the comfiest chair he can find, sans beverage, and closes his eyes for a few moments. 

For all that his eye has been an endless source of entertainment today, it still aches rather badly, and thinking about the pain gives him a headache. The sounds of his coworkers going about their free moments is almost relaxing. 

And then there’s a sudden cold sensation on his skin, just over the injured eye. 

The other snaps open, staring up at a vaguely smiling Bull. “We match, huh?”

There is no logical reason for Dorian to blush. Absolutely none. But he _is._

“Keep your head tilted back.”

“If you say so.” Dorian mumbles. “It’s...ah...very kind of you.”

“I like being kind to you.” Bull answers. “Is it helping?”

“That’s better. That’s…” He takes a deep breath. “That’s good.”

Dorian doesn’t know which of them he’s talking to. 

“Hate seeing you hurt like that.” Bull says, almost too soft to catch. 

But Dorian does, and it’s not something he’ll let go. 

-

Educators, for all that their salaries are limited and their jobs stressful, know how to flip the switch. 

He remembers drinking with his classmates after certain milestones at the Circle, but for all that spells flew and fire extinguishers were emptied, no one had ever done a cartwheel-backflip off a table for a free drink. 

Sera has always been and will always be full of surprises. 

Nurse Wynne watches her like a hawk. 

Dorian takes a short video of a genuinely impressive balancing act on the back of a chair and texts it to Isabela, captioned _guess what she does for a living._

Isabela 😎   
  
**I:** A few years ago I’d have said me ngl  
  
**D:** Art teacher  
  
**I:** I’m genuinely upset that she’s not teaching gym  
  
**D:** Nope. That’s this one.  
  


He goes to sneak a picture of Bull, only to find the man looking right back at him, a crooked little smile on his lips. When Dorian falters, he squeezes his eye shut, and Dorian realizes that he is _attempting to wink._

He takes the photo, sends it, and pulls in a deep breath before going to join Bull and his group of admirers. Two rather pretty redheads— _twins,_ bless them—have joined Sebastian and Dagna at Bull’s table. 

Dagna beams and thumps Bull on the shoulder, clearly coming to the end of a point, and brightens up further when she notices Dorian. “So what d’you think? Which is harder, corralling kids or supervillains?”

Having met both, Dorian feels fully comfortable intoning, _Kids_ at exactly the same time as The Iron Bull. 

Sebastian snorts into his ginger ale, and Dorian notes that there is a bright blue cocktail umbrella in it. He toys with it momentarily before sighing, “I ought to go home. Evening prayers and all.” 

“You’ll be missed!” Dagna cheers, and Dorian is abruptly glad that she’s not quite this energetic in Shop. 

Sebastian takes a moment to gather his jacket and sling it on, but pauses on his way to the door to clasp Dorian’s hand. “Don’t let him convince ya to do shots or the like. He’s got the gut of a bear. S’ppose it’s good for that line of work.”

Dorian should probably not feel quite as touched as he does.

He shakes his head, and nods over at Sera’s impromptu Cirque du Surface.

“Is there a betting pool on when she falls and breaks her arm? I feel like she’d appreciate that sort of thing.”

“Used to be.” Bull grins, patting the empty seat next to him. “But she never falls, so no one ever won. Now and then she’ll use these as a beam.” He points to his horns. 

“You’re certainly a sport.” Dorian leans over to share a smile with Dagna before taking the offered chair. 

“Makes me feel better, being close enough to catch her.” The bigger man nods.

“I thought she never falls.”

Bull just _looks_ at him. 

“You’re a very caring person.”

“I do what I can.” Bull shrugs. “For a long time, my life was about the worst people had to offer. Secrets they didn’t want to tell. Shit like that. Now I get to hang out with other people batshit enough to teach teenagers.”

Dagna makes a _whoooooo_ noise that Dorian has not heard since bar hopping in college. Hurray, ‘being batshit enough to teach teenagers,’ he supposes. 

“A clear move up.”

“Yeah. Sometimes all you can do.” The look Bull gives him this time is disconcertingly loaded with meaning. Like he’s dug up something Dorian thought securely buried. It doesn’t make him as nervous as it probably _should_.

“You should buy him a drink.” Dagna says, helpfully. “He’s pretty, and also does not have a drink.” 

Unable to help himself, Dorian adds: “It would be awfully heroic.” 

“Be glad to.” Bull laughs, and goes to oblige them both. 

Isabela 😎   
  
**I:** MFB you work with TIB during the day too  
  
**I:** You have a problem Peaches  
  
**I:** Also no fair! You’ll go out partying w/ ur teacher friends but not us  
  
**D:** You’ve never asked me to go partying with you  
  
**I:** I feel like if u get ur ass slapped it’s like  
  
**I:** An automatic party  
  
**D:** There was a time when I would have agreed with that, and it was before teaching teenage girls.  
  
**I:** K yeah exception.  
  
**I:** You know I think I’d have liked having you as a teacher.  
  
**D:** I doubt it.  
  
**D:** I’d have made you wear pants.  
  


By the time Dorian heads out, he’s got a near-full sleeve tattoo on his arm, done in Sharpie—courtesy of Solas, who _can_ smile, as it turns out. He just doesn’t when he has a chance to remember the state of arts funding within the educational system. 

(Dorian knows this because Solas talks passionately and at-length when he’s drunk off his precious naked head.)

He’s also got a battered copy of Hard in Hightown tucked into his bag, dog-eared, riddled with post-its, and—apparently—notated all to hell. It’s on loan from _Cassandra_ , of all people, and suddenly Dorian understands why a woman who always looks prepared to fight the Maker himself in the name of The Rules fought tooth and nail for a Romantic Poetry elective that eight kids signed up for. 

And also why Varric is not properly afraid of her—the sight of the literary department head perched in the Journalism teacher’s lap was all sorts of illuminating, really. 

Especially when Bull poked him in the side, smiling at the way it made him squirm and whine. “We’re glad you came, you know?” 

He did not. 

But he does now. 

\- 

(The Iron Bull blinks down at his desk, trying to puzzle out the addition of a small linen sachet with what look like runes hand stitched into it. They’re a little crooked, but when he picks it up—very carefully, and only after Dalish snorts and says that it’s _perfectly safe_ —it’s _warm._

Really warm. 

Underneath it, there’s a note—

 _If you’re going to insist on taking care of everyone else, you might as well tend to that knee. - D_

Bull slumps down into his chair, the warmth in his cheeks struggling to match the warmth in his palm. He laughs, unable to help himself, and presses the gift to his knee.)

-

A party with his villainous coworkers is not _that_ different from a party with his educational coworkers—as it turns out, alcohol is the sort of coping mechanism that transcends boundaries and unites people used to dealing with aggressive posturing for a living. 

Also, the Nightingale is here, perched on a barstool and smiling at him like she wants to either flirt with him or eat him. 

He is frightened of her in a way that Maevaris would _envy._

“You know,” She hums, “You don’t seem terribly villainous to me.”

“I can’t tell if that’s an insult.”

Her smile gentles a bit, as if he’s a sweet child she’s taken a moment to indulge. (He knows this expression _exactly._ ) “It is not. All of us join the league for our own personal reasons. Some do so because they _are_ villains—jaded, greedy, seeking safety in numbers and shadows. Others because they see the world that _could_ be, and are frustrated that it is not the world that _is._ ”

Dorian frowns, relatively certain she won’t _enjoy_ being told that she sounds like a fortune cookie. It’s still tempting. “You think I’m an idealist? We’ve only just met. I could be cartoonishly evil.”

“You have the right moustache.” She grins. 

“That’s offensive. I’m offended.”

“I’m Leliana.”

“...Dorian. Are we…?”

“Properly acquainted, now.”

“That’s awfully simplistic.”

“I run a spy network, ‘Mr. P.’”

“That is incredibly disconcerting.” He sighs.

She pats his shoulder, consolingly. “I will buy you another drink. But really, as a colleague—I admire you. You are doing better work than you think.”

The warm, fuzzy feeling is probably tequila. 

Probably. 

He should go make sure Isabela is still wearing pants. (For now.) 

-

She is, thank goodness, because the last thing any of the drunken villains need is to argue with the Guardswoman about whether or not it’s possible to get a ‘moontan.’

She’s got her arm slung loosely about Merrill’s shoulder, and the elvhen woman looks as happy as anything, pink-cheeked and giggling. She smiles when she spots Dorian, ducking out from her girlfriend’s hold to wave at him with her whole body. 

“Dorian!” She cheers. “Would you like to do flaming body shots?”

He blinks at her. “No?” 

She droops. “Isabela said you would.”

“Isabela is a walking, talking nuisance fire.”

“And she loves me anyway!” The menace in question _crows_ , and throws her hands in the air in a double fist pump. 

Oghren makes what is probably a garbled cheering noise from his place at the bar. There’s no way he knows _what_ he’s cheering for, but it’s as good an occasion as any. 

Dorian appreciates that about him.

From a distance his breath cannot cross. 

He looks to the rest of the booth’s occupants, spotting an unmasked Zevran with a tenuous grip on his bottle of beer, cuddled up to a handsome man in a borderline inappropriate flirtation with a plate of cheesy fries. 

He seems vaguely familiar. 

Dorian sincerely hopes they have not slept together. 

Zevran, for his part, puffs up like a proud bird when he sees where Dorian is looking. This is a man _absolutely delighted_ to show off his partner. 

“Alistair.” He calls, “Meet our friend, Dorian.”

“Hm?”

“Friend. Dorian.” Zevran points, ever so helpfully, to indicate that Dorian is _not_ a cheese-laden potato stick. “That way.”

Alistair does flush a bit when he looks up. “Oh! Sorry. It’s been a busy week, and I haven’t eaten much today. And they’re uh...really good. ...Are you all right?”

“You’re Alistair Theirin.”

“Yes?”

“You’re the _mayor._ ”

“Also yes. I’m pretty sure?” He flusters a bit, looks sideways at Zevran and visibly relaxes at the man’s nod. 

That seems like a promising instinct for the most politically powerful man in the city to have. Very healthy. Dorian is not panicking at all. 

Zevran smiles brightly, resting a hand on each of Alistair’s shoulders from behind, like a parent declaring their child’s recent decimation of all other children at the school’s annual spelling bee. 

_Isn’t he smart? Look at how smart he is!_

Dorian remembers that. Vaguely. 

“He’s in his second term, but we’re already planning for number three.”

Isabela snorts beer. “Is he _pregnant_?”

For the first time in their acquaintance, Dorian watches Zevran’s expression go flat. 

Art theft? All in fun.

Murder? Ah, we do what we must, no?

Make a joke about his husband’s political career? _Murder face._

This entire situation is surreal. 

“I thought there were term limits on that sort of thing?” Merrill asks, ever curious and not at all acquainted with the concept of fear. 

“You cannot serve three terms consecutively.” Zevran nods. “But you _can_ be re-elected after someone else serves as a term. And my theory is that if this term were to be cut _short—_ ”

Zevran’s TED talk on premeditated mayoral homicide is interrupted by sudden shouting from near the bar. 

An unusually more sleep deprived-looking Anders is brandishing a menu at a snarling elf with white hair and what appear to be tattoos until he _physically lights up_.

“That’s Fenris.” Merrill offers. “He’s a bit grumpy.”

Is that what one calls it when an individual prepares to _eat_ another individual at a casual after-work event?

“Today?”

“Every day.” Isabela corrects. “He escaped slavery in Tevinter, and—oh, hey. You should sit down.” 

Zevran, for once completely in tune with common sense, leans over to yank Dorian into the u-shaped booth with them. “He is a good man, but angry still. Passionate about breaking up trafficking rings. For a long time, he was unaffiliated, but the Mockingbird hunted him down with the paperwork.”

This is all somehow said with the exact same gravity throughout, and Dorian is horrified to understand that _completely._

“It’s the sweetest thing.” Merrill leans across the table to add. “Fenris couldn’t read.”

Dorian squints at her, trying to follow the thought process on ‘it’s cute that he was unwillingly illiterate.’

Isabela wraps her arm around her girlfriend once more and pulls her into a doting side hug. “It’s her cadence. It’s _cute_ because it’s how he met Anders. He went unaffiliated for a while after that, until he got banged up and had to head for the clinic. Only Anders has you sign in so he can check on you, and Fen couldn’t do _that_ either.”

“Again—” Dorian frowns. 

“Shhhhh.” Zevran laughs. “It is cute because Anders taught Fenris to read, and they’ve been trying to kill each other ever since.”

“I have literally never had that happen to me with a student before.”

“You might have,” Zevran flashes his teeth. “They’re just quietly plotting revenge.”

“Zev,” Alistair frowns, “What the hell.”

But he seems reasonably content after a quick kiss on the cheek. 

Dorian is distracted as a blond waif in a very large hat seems to appear spontaneously beside him. This bothers _no one else._ “We come together in very odd ways. But they’re very sticky, and so we stay.” He laces his fingers together and makes a show of pulling— “Like this!”

“Good evening, Cole!” Merril chirps. 

Dorian says, “Okay.”

Fenris and Anders argue right out the door, past a perturbed-looking Calpernia, and hook past the window into the alley. 

Isabela laughs, “Don’t worry. They’re off to work off all that energy before heading home to Karl. He’ll have none of that nonsense.”

Helpfully, Cole adds, “The glowing keeps him awake.”

It occurs to Dorian that they are all gossipping like teenagers about what are probably their friends. 

With Dorian.

Who is also, somehow...their friend. 

-

Cremissius Aclassi— _Krem,_ as his classmates call him—stays back to talk to him on Wednesday. 

“Mr. P?” He says, shifting awkwardly as Dorian stacks and straightens today’s papers. “Can I, uh...ask you something?”

“You can ask me most anything, Mr. Aclassi.” Dorian hums, distracted. “It _is_ what I’m here for.”

“Right. Right.” Whatever Dorian’s said, it’s given the young man a bit more confidence. “It’s just, uh... _weird_...to talk to Bull about this.”

Dorian stops. 

Krem has been part of the Hero Union’s student internship program for _years_ , from what he’s heard. Reliable word on the street says after graduation, he’ll move on to work as an actual sidekick to The Iron Bull. 

They’re close, and the rest of Krem’s friends are following that same path. 

If anything, the boy is Bull’s second in command, assisting the hero and mentoring his fellow students. 

What in the world could be ‘weird’ for them to talk about?

“It’s not like it’s secret or anything that I’m trans.”

“No, you’ve always been very open.” Dorian nods. 

He doesn’t know if it’s appropriate to feel _proud_ of Krem for being himself, but during his time teaching, he’s felt that way often enough. 

“But our health classes right now haven’t really covered it, or what it means socially. It’s not like anyone’s dumb enough to come at me, but it might not be the same for the next person. Not everybody’s training to be the next Captain Kickass.”

Dorian actually has to pause for a moment to remember that there is, fortunately, no actual Captain Kickass. 

Krem continues, “And there’s just stuff that people should be able to figure out themselves, and questions they should _know_ not to ask. I feel like that should be taught. Like hey, want to ask a dumb invasive question? Here’s three ways Quungle can help you not be a dick.”

Dorian can’t help but laugh. “Fair.”

“So could that maybe _be_ in the curriculum?”

“‘Maybe?’”

“It _should_ be in the curriculum.”

“Krem.” Dorian says. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with wanting the information you learn in school to be _relevant_ to you. Especially not if it relates to _who you are_ and _how others treat you._ We all want to be represented.” 

He watches as an invisible string seems to loosen, and Krem’s shoulders relax. “And it’s not like I _can’t_ talk to Bull, you know.”

“It’s just ‘weird.” Dorian smiles, just a little. “I’ll look over the material with Bull.”

“Cool.” Krem says. “That’s cool. Thanks.”

“Would you be willing to do a sensitivity read once we’re done?”

“Void, yes.”

“You did something that made you uncomfortable to make sure that other people could be, Krem. That’s pretty heroic. ...You could be a teacher.”

Krem just rolls his eyes at Dorian’s stupid grin. 

Ah, the teenage ennui. 

Dorian lives for it.

-

The unit gets approved quickly, and Dorian and Bull, as always, work together to create an informative assembly that engages the kids as much as possible. 

They work well together, this way.

And Bull looks cute with his reading monocle on, jotting down Dorian’s thoughts like they’re vitally important. (All right, it’s a little bit of an ego thing.)

The presentation is solid, well-researched, and at the end of it, Macy Elwes asks if she can hug them and Dorian takes a deep breath and thinks, _I would fight the Old Gods themselves for these kids._

And it’s a strange new sensation. 

-

The same cannot be said for what Bull calls the Semi-Annual Smoking is a Dick Move Assembly. 

They’re given a printout of what Vice Principal Giselle calls ‘key talking points’ in the battle against smoking, and Dorian combs the list with a growing sense of ironic horror. 

There’s really nothing else to call this. 

It begins with somewhat predictable slogans: “Don’t be a joke, put out that smoke” and “Smoking’s for fools—don’t light up at school!” (Implying, perhaps, that smoking off-campus is somehow fine?)

It ends with: “Smoking makes you ugly” and the absolute _gem—_ “Stink. Die.” 

“And she wants us to, what—read these off in order?”

“Pepper them into the presentation.”

“She wants me to ‘pepper’ ‘Stink. Die.’ into the presentation.”

“I honestly don’t think she actually reads the list.”

They look at each other, blank-faced, until both of them crack up.

On stage, Dorian holds up the print out in front of the assembled students. “How many of you can recite the phrases on this list?”

A truly impressive number of hands go up. 

“Right! We’re going to talk about healthy coping mechanisms that don’t make your breath taste like vintage death.”

Giselle does not appreciate the seven minute discussion on making out with an ashtray and what that might, theoretically, taste like, but when the kids direct the assembly, _they actually pay attention._

Because they’re learning. 

They’re _all_ learning—the kids, Dorian, and Bull. 

It sounds like some cheesy self-help book, but he’s genuinely connecting with over a _hundred_ people, and it feels better than standing in any stuffy lecture hall or Imperial council. 

It’s ridiculous.

It’s amazing. 

It’s the new normal.

He kind of likes it.

-

The worst thing about it is that it’s a perfectly normal period on a _perfectly normal Monday_ when the Conductor breaks through the wall of the science lab, looking for _him._

He is accompanied, as any self-respecting sociopath, by a modest army of people being eaten by corrupted lyrium. 

“This is my orchestra,” He declares. “Are they not beautiful?”

“Shitting _no!_ ” Krem yells, and throws a beaker of hydrochloric acid before dragging his lab partner under their station. 

It stings—it’s clear that it stings, but the man already looks like a crab melted into a very stretched-out corpse. He snarls, extends his arm in a gesture of command, but before he can _think_ about his options, Dorian has lunged forward, bending the clawed appendage back _hard_ until he hears the snap. 

“I _sincerely_ hope you have a hall pass.” He snarls, like he’s some sort of demented action star, escaped to make horrible decisions in the real world. 

“Better, little serpent. I come to you with an offer.”

“And an army. In the _middle of my class._ ”

The Conductor frowns, which does rather horrible things to his already unfortunate face. “The children distract you? This is a trifling matter.”

At this point, several things happen very quickly:

  * The crystallized army lurches forward.
  * Krem lays into one of them with a fire extinguisher.
  * Bethany _screams_ as a thrall catches her arm. 
  * The children fly into a panic. 



And Dorian loses his temper. 

“Is this really how you make friends?” He drawls, deceptively calm, and reaches out a hand to cup a melted cheek and set what’s _left_ of The Conductor’s hideous visage _on fire._

“You were to—to _listen!”_ The man shrieks, even as his followers begin tearing a path of chaos through the lab. 

“Children, go! Fire drill protocol, hit the gas shut-off on the way out!” 

Most hurry to obey. Some stand, shocked still as the walking corpses advance on them. Dorian curses under his breath and lets the energy form a circuit in his belly—reaches into the earth and the Fade at once and pulls what he finds there _up._

The result is fifth-period biology getting chaperoned out of the lab by a host of questionably dripping shades. 

“Good children, there you are.” He mutters before turning back to a very irate coworker.

“You _are_ Ouroburos.” He hisses. “You _are_ one of us.” 

“We seem to have a different sense of workplace ethics.” Dorian drawls. “If this is the leadup to another monologue, then I’ll save you the time. I’m not interested. And I’m _going_ to hurt you. I’m a high school science teacher— _you don’t scare me._ ” 

After that, pretty much everything is on fire. 

Good thing Skinner hit the switch.

-

It’s almost comical, if not for all of the smoke and the structural damage, and the pain of his knuckles, ablaze and crashing repeatedly against the archvillain’s vulnerable skull. 

He’s not escaped without injury, but at the moment _he does not care._

This must be what the kids call a ‘curbstomp.’

He _would_ be proud, if he weren’t busy. 

Fireball.

“You _do not_ attack children.”

Fireball. 

“You do _not_ level a school building.”

Horror spell. 

“And you _do not_ **_interrupt my class!_ ** _”_

-

Everything is chaos as the teachers evacuate the building. 

All pretense at organization has collapsed as children stampede for the exits, flowing around adults with pinched expressions, desperately trying to direct them. 

The Iron Bull is the only one who seems confident as he wades through the panic, barking instructions. 

And then he spots Krem and the rest of Bio - 5. 

And the demons alternately urging them forward and splitting off to fight off what look like New Age store zombies. 

“Chief!” Krem yells over the din. “The Conductor’s gone after Mr. P!”

If he had doubts before, they’re pretty much gone. 

The maintenance staff is going to lose their _shit_ , but he needs to find Dorian. 

-

The lab is located nearer the middle of the school, which is good—the kids have evacuated by now, so the groaning beams and crackling roof aren’t an immediate threat to anyone _but_ the lingering zombies Bull dozed (ha) to get here. 

He takes a deep breath before he opens the door, afraid of what he will or will not find, and lets it all out when he spots a thoroughly assaulted supervillain next to…

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/145598454@N05/50209579783/in/photostream/)

“Your clothes are gonna get rumpled like that.” Bull says. 

Dorian blinks up at him from his place on the floor, sleeves rolled up, spattered with dust and blood. “I think they’re a loss, anyway.”

-

Again Bull looks down at him without ever looking down at him. 

And then he pulls him up—into his arms. 

“For a minute there, I thought you’d be dead. But then I remembered—the whole resurrection thing—it’s what you’re good at.” 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“...You know I was engineered to be a _spy_ , right?”

“...Right.”

“And I’ve had a crush on you since you started.”

That bit...that bit is news.

-

The asphalt is damp underfoot from a broken fire hydrant, and the school’s facade is partially collapsed. All in all, it looks like a proper disaster punched the building right in the teeth, and Dorian feels somewhat guilty. 

He doesn’t know if he’ll have a job tomorrow morning, but it was worth it today. The kids are _safe_ today. 

A reporter—tidy, blond, blue statement jacket—takes a break from her usual red-slashed moue of cheer to ask him if he’s giving up a life of villainy when really he’s only been at it for a few months. 

“I’m not very good at it, am I?” He laughs, but ends up coughing a bit from the concrete dust. 

She pauses. “I don’t know what the hell you’re doing. I don’t think anyone does. But I know you’re good at it.”

Dorian doesn’t know what to say to that, so he settles for, “Thank you.”

And then Bull’s there, taking him by the hand and leading him through a parking lot where too many alarms are going off. 

Neither of them pays it any mind. 

-

The danger is over, for now. 

Both of them are safe, if partially bandaged, but neither of them speak on the way to Bull’s apartment. Bull’s palm is broad and warm and tight around Dorian’s, fingers laced together where they can. 

There’s no roadmap to what they’re doing, no rulebook that applies. 

(There is, actually, but neither man gives a wit about it at the moment.)

They stand together in the tiny entryway, breathing loud and shivering from where the sprinklers soaked them both. 

Bull looks at him. 

Sees him. 

And then he’s breathing against Dorian’s mouth, pulling him tight against his body like he means to steal all the air in the room. 

His tongue is warm and thick and perfect and Dorian can’t help but whine at every single desperate twitch of his hands. 

“It a bad time to say I love you?”

Dorian can’t help the short, hysterical giggle that rips itself out of him. “No.”

“Good. _Fuck,_ good.” Bull’s breath rattles between them and he’s back to pressing them together, digging sharp canines into the soft flesh of Dorian’s throat and shoulders. 

And _there’s_ the super strength when Bull hauls him up into his arms and grinds them together through damp fabric. 

“Say it again. Keep saying it.” Dorian whines, and Bull pulls his shirt off with very little assistance. 

“Love you.” He says, one hand slipping past the zipper to grind palm-to-fingers against his dick.

“Love you.” He says, leaning in to graze a stiff nipple with his teeth.

“Fuckin’ _love you._ ” He sighs when Dorian presses his teeth into his shoulder, grinding hard against him and _crying._

“My hero.” Dorian rasps. 

“Just yours.” Bull shakes his head where it rests against his chest. “All I want.”

“Have it.” Dorian hums. “You’ve earned it.”

-

Sex with the Iron Bull is not what Dorian originally expected. 

He’d always known there’d be passion, there. Skill. 

The groupies that landed in the hero’s bed weren’t shy about singing his praises—but what they’d described hadn’t been...anything like this. 

He’d expected hard, fast—multiple orgasms had been mentioned—and fun times for all. 

But this isn’t _fun._

It’s…

Bull is inside him, impossibly big and hot and driving him mostly out of his mind, but…

He braces himself over Dorian in a way that might be imposing if he didn’t feel so safe and wanted. There’s no hard, fast thrusting—it’s as if Bull doesn’t want to bother with that. 

Like he doesn’t want to leave. 

He holds tight, one hand gripping gently at the hair at the base of Dorian’s skull, the other at his hip, thumb running over the bone. Gentle, but not soft. 

Bull rolls his hips with purpose, grinding in slick and warm and wet heat occupying his mouth, fingers on his skin, an almost searing sensation in his dick. 

Dorian wants to be held tighter, takes the hand on his hip and moves it to his throat and only whines a _little_ when Bull breaks from him, air rushing into his eager lungs. 

He says, “Not tonight, kadaan.”

And Dorian is satisfied with that, with the reassurance and the way it sounds. 

Briefly he lays that hand on Dorian’s cheek, like it’s amazing that he’s here, tilting his hips into the strange sensation of Bull staying with him. 

“Good boy. So sweet to me.” 

Dorian presses a kiss to his palm, and Bull chuckles before moving it down to press against his belly. 

He wonders if Bull can feel his cock through the skin—he _feels_ stretched enough. Arches just a little at the idea of it. 

Fingers wrap around him finally— _finally_ —and he realizes as his orgasm builds all too suddenly that he doesn’t want it to stop. 

But it has to, sometime, so they can do this again and again and again. 

Because

 _“I love you so_ **_fucking_ ** _much.”_ Dorian gasps through actual salt tears as he cums between them, stomach clenching and hips writhing against Bull’s warm hand. 

He feels personally accomplished when Bull _finally_ caves and withdraws to drive into him, skin slapping against skin. 

“My hero.” He says, again. “Only mine.”

Bull snorts, even now propped over him to keep from crushing him. Even as his hips work desperately and his throat tightens at the _goodness_ of it. “If anyone’s a hero, it’s you.”

Right here, right now, from Bull’s lips (and speared on his cock) Dorian is unusually inclined to agree. 

-

It turns out that turning oneself into a knockoff Ghostrider during an impromptu team up with a prominent hero in a very public setting means paperwork. 

But he gets to fill it out tucked into Bull’s side on a very comfy couch while his very new boyfriend makes calls. Dorian’s phone got crushed during The Conductor’s attack, which is fortunately (somehow) covered by League insurance. 

Bull is just hanging up a check-in with Felix, adjusting the soft nug-patterned blanket around them both when his phone rings again. 

“You’ve reached Bull and Dorian,” He says, a large thumb tapping the ‘speaker’ button. “Go.”

Dorian likes the sound of it. 

And then—

“This is Siobhan Cousland. I’m a friend of Leliana’s.”

Dorian does not cringe, because he is a big brave boy who just melted a supervillain for interrupting lab. But he does hiss a bit. 

“Tell me I’ve not broken any more rules. I’ve already filled out six forms in triplicate.”

Siobhan laughs. “No, no. Kind of the opposite, really. I was wondering if you’d like to do a little experiment in Civics.”

Bull frowns. “He teaches science.”

Dorian pats his knee. “Other job, love.”

“You’re not a villain, Dorian. Not any more than the next hopeful jackass with a parking ticket, anyway. But right now, the League is the only place for you.”

“And you’re suggesting…?”

“Only what you’re very good at: stirring civil unrest for the best possible cause.”

For a moment, Bull is still beside him. 

And then he places a hand on each shoulder from behind in an eerily familiar gesture. 

_Isn’t he smart? Look at how smart he is!_

“Oh, don’t start.”

“I told you.” Bull said, “You’ve got what it takes.”

-

At the end of the year, Varric hands him his very own copy of the yearbook. He’s obviously proud of the work he’s done. And himself. 

“Flip to page 243.” He says, smiling. “The student body voted. This wasn’t me.”

Right after the usual Senior Superlatives, there’s a special full-page feature. 

Dorian absolutely does not cry when he spots a photo of himself after the attack on the school, centered in the frame and exhausted, but smiling. Bull’s arm is slung around his shoulder, and he’s looking at him like he’s _magic_ . And he is, really, but now he _feels_ like it.

**Most Likely to Save the World** **  
**

**Author's Note:**

> The working title for this one was: You Don't Scare Me, I Teach Science to Teenagers.
> 
> I think it got across pretty well, though.
> 
> If you missed the link in text, Dorian's revamped Ouroboros mask is stolen from a canceled design for Lady Black Mask. [Here.](https://www.destructoid.com/ul/563844-supposed-concept-art-surfaces-from-cancelled-damian-wayne-batman-title/cancelled%20batman%20game%20black%20mask-noscale.jpg)
> 
> This started out as a cheeky send up of a more functional superhero  
> universe, and turned into a love letter to Dorian learning to believe in and value himself from an entire host of found family. And Bull. <3 (While still being a cheeky send up of a more functional superhero  
> universe.)
> 
> Thanks to Muchy and everyone in the Bang for giving me the kick in the pants to write this out. <3


End file.
